


Best Lesson Learned

by Pseudonym-Synonym (CrimsonEnigma)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Cygate - Freeform, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:29:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonEnigma/pseuds/Pseudonym-Synonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tailgate is fed up with being weak and asks Cyclonus to teach him how to defend himself</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Lesson Learned

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place some indiscriminate amount of time after MtMtE #28
> 
> This is unbeta'd; all mistakes are my own

“No, Tailgate.”

Cyclonus remained firm, his arms crossed over his broad chestplate and his lipplates twisted in a frown.

Tailgate’s vocalizer hitched in frustration. “Why not?” the minibot demanded. He didn’t think that, of all mechs, Cyclonus would deny him. “I have a right to know how!”

Cyclonus’ optics flared and he took the time to choose his words. “I am not teaching you how to fight so you can recklessly throw yourself into danger. You don’t need to prove your worth to anyone. You don’t _need_ to fight.”

“Is-Is that what you think this is about? Just my ego!?” Tailgate asked. “Cyclonus, I’m not asking you to teach me how to jump into battle! Being useful is a great idea and all, but I just…” Tailgate sighed and plopped onto his berth. He had already planned out this whole conversation ahead of time, but nothing was going his way. He didn’t expect Cyclonus to be so resistant.

“You’re not suited for battle, Tailgate,” Cyclonus reiterated.

“I-I know that! I-I just…!!” Tailgate didn’t think that it was possible to feel any smaller than he already did. He glanced at his servos. They were so tiny compared to Cyclonus’—tiny and white and a little clumsy. It was no wonder that the larger bot didn’t think it would be a good idea to train. Tailgate’s stature didn’t exactly inspire confidence. Though attacking Tyrest all those months ago might’ve been an act of equal parts bravery and stupidity, it didn’t mean that he was capable fighter at all.

But he wanted to be something more now. The whole crew knew about his lies; he’d spilled them all when he was dying of Cybercrosis. Sure, Tailgate wanted to die with a clean conscience, but that wasn’t why he re-edited his Autopedia and told his friends. The worst that could happen, beyond dying, was being forgotten. Tailgate learned from watching his crewmates that the pain of betrayal ran deep and far, so even if they hated him for his dishonesty, they would’ve at least remembered him.

But he lived. He lived and he had to deal with the repercussions instead. It had already taken time to convince Swerve and First Aid that he was genuinely sorry and although he hadn’t seen Ultra Magnus lately, he figured that the former Chief of the Tyrest Accord would lecture him with Autobot code again. Slowly, he was regaining the trust of his friends (save for Chromedome, but Tailgate didn’t blame him). Becoming something of a lukewarm hero helped, too.

He had lied to feel wanted, and now all he felt was guilt. Tailgate needed to fix that. Yes, he had been wrong. He vowed not to ever betray his friends again, but he also didn’t want to betray himself, either. He wanted to be more than a sluicer. He could handle not being a hero; now he just wanted to be capable and trustworthy.

Tailgate didn’t have any cool abilities like Trailbreaker and Skids. He wasn’t as personable as Rewind had been. He didn’t have Brainstorm’s processing power, or Rung’s patience, or Whirl’s confidence. He didn’t have Cyclonus’ strength.

Instead, he was just a tiny, vulnerable waste disposal minibot. 

Tailgate didn’t want to feel small anymore.

“Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” Tailgate tried again, rubbing a servo over his helm, “I’m not asking to fight. I mean it. I know that you’re worried that I’ll go jumping into danger just because I’ll know how to throw a punch, but I won’t Cyclonus! Really, I won’t!”

When the jet didn’t give further input, Tailgate took the silence as an opportunity to continue.

“We’ve been trying to find the Knights of Cybertron for a long time now, and no matter where we go, it seems like there’s always someone or something trying to kill us,” he continued. “I know that I’m not big. I know that I’m not strong. But…but I like to think that I could take care of myself. And maybe… maybe… just listen! I don’t want to fight Decepticons! I don’t want to know how to kill! I just want to be able to defend myself and the people I care about if we’re ever in danger and running isn’t an option!”

Tailgate finally glanced up at his stoic suite-mate, a petulant, determined gleam in his visor. “So please, Cyclonus—please teach me how.”

Tailgate held his ventilation as Cyclonus dimmed his optics in thought.

“…I thought you preferred lazy days over conflict,” the jet finally muttered.

Tailgate nodded vigorously. “Oh, the quiet is nice, but it’s only circumstantial. I’d much rather be able to help my friends.”

Another moment hung heavy in the air. “…And you would have no one else train you?” Cyclonus asked.

“It’s already embarrassing enough to admit that I’m useless scrap on legs,” Tailgate shrugged and kicked his pedes for emphasis, “I…I don’t think that I could ask anyone else to help me.”

Cyclonus’ EM field pulsed angrily, but he didn’t show any outward signs save for his piercing red optics.

“Fine, I will teach you how to defend yourself, but only under some provisions,” Cyclonus cut off Tailgate’s whoop of joy and counted the terms off on his claws. “One, you will not, under any circumstance outside of a life threatening situation, initiate a physical conflict. Two, I won’t be teaching you how to wield a blade or a gun; you’re too small to use a sword efficiently and if you want to learn how to shoot, then you can talk to Perceptor. Three, be aware that I’m not teaching you how to kill. I’ll be teaching you how to escape. Four, you will arrive on time on the appointed days; I’m not going to waste my time if you’re late. And five…”

Cyclonus towered over the over him, a claw so close to Tailgate’s chestplate that the minibot could almost feel it. Cyclonus’ EM field pulsed again. His optics blazed.

“Five,” he continued. “You will never, EVER refer to yourself as scrap again or _so help me, Tailgate,_ I will you show you firsthand what useless scrap really is.”

Tailgate let the air cycle shakily out of his vents. He felt his visor glowing. He thought that his grin would be wide enough to pop off his new face plate.

“I understand, Cyclonus,” he hopped down from his berth. “Thank you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**1.5 Orns Later**

Footwork, he needed to remember his footwork!

Tailgate stumbled with a garbled yelp, narrowly ducked beneath the sword that whooshed overhead, and fell unceremoniously on his aft.

“Again,” Cyclonus said, already in an offensive stance.

As much as Tailgate wanted to complain about his surely dented rear, he bit his glossa and stood up. Cyclonus was taking the time to train him and he wasn’t about to ruin the session by arguing again.

For the past orn or two, Cyclonus had been teaching him basic evasion techniques in one of the exercise rooms. Tailgate had expected military-esque drills from the once-lieutenant, but it turned out that Cyclonus preferred hands-on experience. Sure, he had taught Tailgate fundamentals—how to shield his helm with his forearms, keeping his distance and staying low, the constant bobbing and weaving in a circular pattern—but putting it to actual practice was the focus of the jet’s lessons. Tailgate had finally gotten the hang of grappling at least. He knew how to find weak spots in abdominal plating and transformation seams. He knew how to kick the knee joints and stomp the pedes to make his opponent stall. He even learned the general angle for breaking servos in someone’s hand. Now, that he had a decent handle on how to defend himself against an unarmed opponent, they had moved on.

Tailgate still wasn’t allowed a weapon, but that’s because the point of the exercise wasn’t to fight back. He was supposed to find an opportunity to run. At least Cyclonus’ sword wasn’t live. Skids had been the bot to remind Cyclonus that Ratchet would more than frown upon legitimate battle damage. So rather than wield his regular weaponry, Cyclonus opted for a long, dull blade. It may not have been sharp or charged, but it still smarted.

“O-okay! I’m re—AH!” Tailgate barely sidestepped Cyclonus’ sword again and scrambled back. He kept his forearms by his helm, focused on the weight change and flow of the blade, and anticipated the next swing. He evaded an upwards diagonal, then a thrust, and skittered towards Cyclonus’ blind spot.

“Again,” the jet said.

“What? But I dodged that one perfectly!” Tailgate protested.

“You had an opportunity to flee entirely, and you didn’t. Again.”

They continued for some time, gradually moving faster and faster, until Tailgate could feel his fans screaming in protest and his vents heaving for cool air. Thankfully, Cyclonus noticed the fatigue and lowered his sword. The minibot took that as a sign to relax and collapsed to his aft.

“So, uh,” Tailgate’s vocalizer stuttered as warnings popped up on his HUD, “Um, good session, right?”

Cyclonus clipped the sword to his back and said, “We’re not finished yet. Regulate your core temperature, and then we’ll continue.”

Tailgate held back his groan of dismay and flopped on the floor, opening his vents as far as he could. He caught the slightest hint of a smirk on Cyclonus’ lipplates as the jet left the exercise room for whatever reason. Tailgate wanted to pursue, to see what his friend had in store for him next, but he was too tired. Every night after a training session like this one, Tailgate could feel his joints and cables burning with exertion. Some part of him had to wonder if this is what every mech felt like after exercising, but he couldn’t ask Cyclonus. He didn’t want the jet doubting his determination to keep up with the regimen.

Even though Tailgate couldn’t tell whether he was actually improving his defense, and his joints ached something terrible, and he probably had more dents that he wanted to think about, he was happy. He was doing something about his given lot in life. And perhaps more than he enjoyed self-improvement, he relished spending time with Cyclonus.

The tall mech had always put a small stutter in Tailgate’s engine, but the minibot knew that he was unworthy of Cyclonus’ attentions. Cyclonus was everything that Tailgate could never be and he probably fancied the tall, lithe warrior type that could match him blow for blow.

So they were just friends, right? That was okay. Tailgate could handle just being friends.

Cyclonus had saved his life (and his reputation) on more than one occasion. Pit, before Shockwave opened up the Dead Universe, Cyclonus had saved Tailgate’s spark from cybercrosis! According to Ratchet, Tailgate was the first mech in all of known history to survive the fatal disease. So what could the minibot ever offer in return? Friendship was supposed to be give and take, right?

Tailgate was determined to be the best friend he could possibly be. He wanted to impress Cyclonus. He wanted to repay him.

He needed to get stronger. He needed to be able to protect his friends.

Tailgate jumped in surprise as the door hissed open again and Cyclonus walked in with an armful of random objects. The minibot scrambled upright and watched as the jet scattered the things around the room. Primus, it looked like they had been pulled out of a trash compactor. There was a wobbly chair, a broom handle, some sort of squishy helm-sized ball, a rusty pipe, a flat balding tire, and a few other assorted items.

“What’s all that for?” Tailgate asked.

“Training,” Cyclonus said. Finally satisfied with the new mess, the jet elaborated. “You’ll probably never have a weapon in hand when conflict occurs. But that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t learn to use the objects around you to your advantage. Any everyday item can become a weapon in the right servos.”

Cyclonus drew his sword. “Has your system cooled?”

Tailgate shook his helm. “Not fully, but if you give me a mo—AH!”

Cyclonus charged with an audio splitting roar. It was faster than what Tailgate was accustomed to and he couldn’t help the pathetic squeak from his vocalizer as he tumbled to the side.

“Hey, I wasn’t ready yet!”

Cyclonus moved in again, taking advantage of Tailgate’s lack of composure to backhand him hard. “Do you think your opponents will wait until you’ve cooled your vents?”

Tailgate barely managed to block his face, but the force of the blow still sent him back halfway across the room. He tripped over the squishy ball, arms pinwheeling, and fell hard.

“I know that is not the best you can do. Again,” Cyclonus said. His optics burned and his EM field sizzled with violent intent.

Tailgate babbled, sudden fear hitting his tanks hard. He had seen Cyclonus mad before, livid even, but this was different. There was no emotion. All he could feel was a carefully tailored willingness to hurt. He had to defend himself.

Cyclonus moved in with another swift slice through the air. Tailgate dodged to the side, tucking and rolling to gain more ground between his self and the jet. He spotted an opening to run and took it. One corner of the room was marked off and designated as the official ‘escape’. Under normal circumstances, reaching that corner meant that he won the match. But this time was different. He bolted for the corner, tapped it with his servo, and turned only to see Cyclonus still advancing on him.

“There is no escape in this exercise,” Cyclonus said, blade ready to strike. “Do you need to re-evaluate your resolve? AGAIN!”

Tailgate made a sound of indignation before utter panic froze his energon lines. He thought that the corner would provide safe haven, but instead, he just boxed himself in. There wasn’t a way he could get past Cyclonus without getting hit. Oh no, he was going to fail. He was going to fail and he would be hurt and Cyclonus would probably hate him because he was too useless and weak to put up any sort of proper fight. If he couldn’t even protect himself, how could he expect to protect anyone else?

He moved his pede, accidentally kicking the bald tire on the floor, before inspiration struck. Tailgate picked up the tire and hurled it at Cyclonus as hard as he could. The jet knocked the flying object aside, but not before Tailgate managed to slip past him and into open floorspace.

“Are you training to win a bet with Swerve? Does your determination mean so little?” Cyclonus turned towards Tailgate again, measuring the minibot quickly, and sped forward. “You told me that you wanted to learn how to defend yourself, SO DO IT!”

Anger bubbled up past Tailgate’s fear and his own EM field sparked weakly against Cyclonus’. How dare he question Tailgate’s resolve! Where in the Pit did he get off talking down to him like that!

“I-I need to get stronger!” Tailgate evaded another blow and tried to kick the back of Cyclonus’ knee. He missed by a long shot, but couldn’t take the time to try again yet. He backpedaled to the jet’s blind spot again, keeping just out of blade’s reach. “You transferred some of your spark energy to me! That’s more than anyone’s ever done and I want to pay you back!”

Cyclonus sneered and lashed out again. “I didn’t save you so you could owe me.”

“Then why did you do it?!”

Tailgate dodged again. Two phrases later had him picking up the rusted pipe from the floor. He couldn’t hope to use it like a sword, but the next evasion he made, he jabbed it hard into Cyclonus’ abdominal plating. The pipe snapped, but left a nice dent that made the larger mech falter.

“I’m serious, Cyclonus! Why did you save me? I mean, I’m a compulsive liar, and I’m annoying, and I talk too much, so why?!” Tailgate knew that he was compromising his focus, but he was angry. If Cyclonus just thought that he was a weakling who didn’t deserve to learn how to defend himself, then was he wasting his time? He couldn’t keep his EM field from announcing his fear of inadequacy, but as it clashed with Cyclonus’, he felt something else. Cyclonus was offended. It radiated from his field, past the fabricated violent intent.

Holy Primus, did he hurt Cyclonus’ feelings?

“I saved you because that’s what friends are supposed to do,” the jet finally said at length. He readied his sword again, purposefully telegraphing his motion, and moved forward. “I saved you because I wanted to.”

Tailgate faltered. Did his audials glitch? “Wh-what?” he asked. The minibot barely came back to his senses to avoid the blow. He ducked jerkily and rolled the wobbly chair at the jet. Cyclonus knocked it aside with ease, but there was an opening again. Tailgate tried to squeeze by, but Cyclonus grabbed the back of his hood scoop and hauled him aside. Tailgate flailed, his pedes finding nothing but air as he kicked, before the instinct to escape took hold. He transformed while in Cyclonus’ grasp. It was a clumsy transition to his alt mode, but it was enough to writhe out of Cyclonus’ claws. He transformed back as soon as his tires hit the ground and tackled the larger mech with a cry. One thing that was nice about being so short is that he was able to easily plow into the taller mech’s center of gravity and throw him off balance.

Cyclonus clanged to the floor. He began to wrestle the minibot off of him, but then hesitated and then stopped altogether. Tailgate paused and glanced up. The minibot was practically straddling his chest, EM field flickering, and confusion and trepidation gleaming in his optics. Cyclonus’ EM field fizzled out and pulled into himself again. He felt Tailgate’s field hesitate and retreat as well.

The poor minibot’s fans were positively shrieking and his engine was thrumming madly. Cyclonus couldn’t help but smirk. His own systems were still within normal parameters. Perhaps he had pushed the smaller mech too much for one day, even if he had been going easy.

“You’re still overheating, but your stamina is improving,” Cyclonus said.

Tailgate’s brow dipped, sensing that the battle was over. Caught by a sudden wave of embarrassment at their position, he rolled off of the jet. “Th-thanks, but that doesn’t answer my question. And you really made me mad!”

Tailgate redirected more power to his coolant lines and fan motors. Metal pinged and clicked as it cooled down. Meanwhile, Cyclonus seemed perfectly content to stare at the ceiling.

“Good. Anger is something that can interfere with your focus. If you lose your reason to protect yourself because you drowned in your rage, then you will die. Work harder on it.”

Tailgate made a noise of indignation, but bit his glossa. While the advice was true, it was misplaced. They both knew that his question hadn’t been answered. He almost asked it again before he noticed Cyclonus thinking about the words. Tailgate rallied against his impatience and waited for the jet to tell him why he performed a dangerous spark infusion to save Tailgate.

“You remind me of our Cybertron—young, naïve, restless, pure, and eager to improve yourself. I couldn’t do anything to save our home, but I could save you.” Cyclonus sat up, resting his elbow on his knee. “Would you have acted differently?”

Energon flushed to Tailgate’s cheek plates. He stuttered a few times, his vocalizer rebooting haphazardly. “Um, well, no! I mean, I d-don’t know if I could’ve come up with a good solution, but I would’ve tried! I would’ve done my best to keep you alive. Primus, I would’ve fought, a h-hundred— a hundred Tyrests!—if it meant saving you!. And I’d do it because…” Tailgate paused, confusion flickering over his biolights as he stared at his servos. “…because we’re friends, right? And that’s why you’re teaching me how to defend myself. Because we’re friends…”

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Cyclonus snorted. “Maybe if the people of Cybertron had been better prepared to protect the planet, then it wouldn’t have been razed by civil war. I won’t see you fall to the same morass of destruction.”

“I won’t! I’m going to be stronger!” Tailgate promised eagerly.

Cyclonus snorted and rolled atop the minibot. Tailgate squeaked and flailed, but ultimately stilled as Cyclonus effortlessly pinned him in place. A shuddery, stuttered whine echoed from his sparking vocalizer as Cyclonus’ sharp claws dipped into the gap between the armor around his neck. “Physical strength doesn’t matter! Power is relative,” Cyclonus tugged at one of the larger cables. It was a main energon line. One quick slice could have Tailgate bleeding out within minutes. The jet ran his claw along it lightly, threateningly. His voice was too close to Tailgate’s audial. “Even the lightest of touches can be a mech’s undoing…”

Tailgate whined somewhere in his vocalizer again. He felt his frame shudder and tremble and he worried that it wasn’t just because he was afraid of a line getting severed. Cyclonus’ frame was hot against his already overheated plating. The larger mech was close, so close. Tailgate could smell the oil and warm metal acutely and oh Primus his engines were trying to rev but they were already so overtaxed that he couldn’t. The minibot’s EM field glitched, sending out embarrassing notes of lust and desire shrouded in fear.

“Cy-Cyclonus…?” Tailgate whimpered.

The jet finally, somewhat reluctantly withdrew his digits from Tailgate’s neck. He stood with an easy grace and glanced anywhere but the minibot. Tailgate couldn’t read his EM field. Cyclonus had it pulled in too tightly. “Our session is finished for the day,” the jet said.

Tailgate tried to respond, but only static came out of his vocalizer and he nodded dumbly instead. They picked up their mess in silence. The minibot knew that he was drained and his tanks were nearing empty, but he still couldn’t help the tremble in his servos.

What had Cyclonus been thinking?! The jet wasn’t making any damn sense and Tailgate felt his frustration and embarrassment grow by the second. Was this some sort of joke? Let’s all tease the sluicer! He’s too small and weak to fight back properly. Oh! And he’s got a silly crush on his best friend that’s too ridiculous NOT to make fun of! Was he even being taken seriously anymore? Although Tailgate knew he wasn’t special, it hurt to think that Cyclonus thought that this was some game to him. It wasn’t. He was serious. And by Primus he was going to prove that one way or another.

“Cyclonus?” Tailgate paused in cleaning up. The jet grunted at him, but didn’t turn. “Do you know what it’s like to be the weak link?” That got a hesitation. He continued.

“I’m so small compared to you and I’m not particularly smart or funny or useful. But I still want to protect the people I care about! People…people like Swerve and Skids, and…and you! Dammit, I know you probably think that’s the biggest joke of the millennia, but it’s true! I want to protect _you_.”

Cyclonus barely glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t need protection.”

Tailgate sighed. Maybe he was chasing a lost cause…no. No he wasn’t. Even if Cyclonus didn’t feel about him the same way, Tailgate couldn’t lie to himself or anyone else again. Cyclonus was strong. He was a magnificent warrior. Tailgate knew that he could never do anything for Cyclonus that the jet couldn’t do for his self. But that didn’t change how he felt.

Tailgate’s vocalizer fizzed into static and it took him a few times to reboot it. “I want to protect you because you protect me. A-and I kinda like it. It’s…nice. I trust you to keep me safe and watch my back.” He felt his anger draining away and tentatively reached out with his EM field. Cyclonus was staring at him intently, something like clarity in his bright red optics. The minibot continued. “Cyclonus you…you don’t have anyone looking out for you. And I know that it’s presumptuous and I’m a moron but…but I want to be that person.”

Cyclonus dimmed his optics and crossed his arms over his chest again. His engine thrummed uncomfortably, maybe a little angrily.

Tailgate took a shaky invent and wrung his servos. “I know that it’s probably embarrassing right now because I’m so weak, but I promise that I’ll get stronger in whatever way you think is worthy! I’ll train really hard! I’ll get a million times better! I’ll be someone that you won’t feel ashamed to be friends with!”

Cyclonus raised his hand to cut the minibot off. “That’s not necessary,” he said.

Tailgate felt his spark twist. “P-please don’t shut me out, Cyclonus!” He dashed towards the larger mech, torn between grabbing and shaking the jet and trying to cling to him. He didn’t want to lose his friend, not over some dumb conversation! “I just want to protect you! I just want to be with you! I just—!!!”

Cyclonus interrupted Tailgate with a firm hand on the minibot’s facemask.

“…I like you how you are.”

Tailgate tried to wrap his processor around the words. His frame trembled. His faceplate felt hot where Cyclonus’ hand rested. “…What?”

Cyclonus’ face was unreadable and stoic, as if the jet were trying to put meaning to his thoughts. “You keep saying that you need to change as if you need to become a different bot. But you don’t. You’re already perf—“ Cyclonus paused. His engines rumbled just momentarily before he quieted them again and knelt before Tailgate, hand still on his face mask. “You’re fine as you are.”

The training room faded into the background as Tailgate’s engine hiccupped and hitched again. Cyclonus cupped Tailgate’s helm and leaned in. The minibot could feel his EM field this close. It was a tangled mess of confusion and want and shame and pride. But the pride was not placed in Cyclonus’ self. It was pride for Tailgate. Cyclonus tilted Tailgate’s helm up so they could lock optics. Tailgate felt himself tremble and suddenly forgot how to in-vent.

“You currently may not compare to other mech’s natural or earned talents, but you have something that they do not.” Cyclonus pressed his flat lipplates to Tailgate’s facemask. It was warm, hesitant, and almost trembled. But Tailgate still felt as if the world had spun out from beneath his pedes.

“You, Tailgate, have courage,” Cyclonus continued, “the courage to admit your mistakes, the courage to face your fears, the courage to improve yourself.”

Tailgate’s fans hiccupped again and he raised shaky servos to touch Cyclonus’ helm lightly, as if he thought that anything heavier than a caress would shatter the delicate moment. He tried to think of something to say, but his processor was misfiring and his vocalizer kept rebooting on its own.

“You do not owe me anything,” the jet said, something like regret beginning to mingle with his EM field. “You are not obligated to protect me or prove yourself to me. Nor are you obligated to reciprocate anything. I should have kept this encounter professional, but I’ve failed. If you’re uncomfortable with continued training lessons, then I’ll find you another teacher. But right now, I’m here, with you, because I want to be.”

Tailgate’s spark soared. He wanted to hold the jet close, to comfort him and protect him and just exist with him. His entire frame trembled and he thought that he might pass out before he remembered how his vents should work.

Tailgate retracted his face mask and stood on the tips of his pedes. He pressed a kiss to the jet’s rough lips and prayed to Primus that he wasn’t dreaming.

“Cy-Cylonus?” he pulled back, optics dancing and spark fluttering. “I like you how you are, too.”


End file.
